


Stay With Me

by roseclipping



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, it starts out angsty but then gets fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 02:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9859028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseclipping/pseuds/roseclipping
Summary: Thomas’ eyes widened as he realized what Hamilton was implying. “No,” he whispered, “No, no, no, don’t youdaretalk like that, you are going to be okay, help is coming and everything’s gonna be okay anddon’t you fucking dare die on me, Alexander Hamilton–”~There are a million places Thomas would expect Alexander Hamilton to be.Half-dead in an alley is not one of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> small warning, there is a little bit of graphic depiction of injuries at the very beginning, but it's quite brief and pretty avoidable. still, thought i should mention that. 
> 
> enjoy~

Drinking alone on a Friday night was sad– he’ll admit it.

But there weren't really any other options. James was out of town for the week, and the only booze he had at his house was expensive champagne reserved for parties only; he finished his last bottle of wine two weeks ago and hadn't gotten around to buying more. Plus, he didn't _want_ to drink at home, it had been a shitty week by all accounts and all he wanted to do was take a cab away from his problems and get a drink because _fuck,_ he deserved it.

Which is how Thomas Jefferson found himself in a dimly-lit, seedy bar just a shade too close to the wrong side of town, safe in the knowledge that none of his colleagues would stumble in and find him– they were all too prideful to go to a place like this. He would be too, on a normal day. A day where he was looking for a good time with friends, or perhaps even a someone to take home for the night, if he was feeling it. But tonight was for neither of those things. Tonight, he just needed a _drink_ , and dammit, this would do.

Thomas glanced down at his phone. 2:46. He should probably start heading back now. He could hail a taxi, but sitting in the back of a cramped, sticky car for ten minute just didn't seem that appealing– he had already suffered through it once tonight, on the way to the bar. He could totally walk, right? He wasn't _that_ drunk. His apartment wasn't _that_ far away. And besides, he could use the exercise.

With his mind made up, he grabbed his phone, paid for his drink, and headed out into the night.

The city was unusually quiet. Especially for a Friday night. There was barely anyone out and about, and only the occasional car rushing by dared disturb the silence. He could practically hear his own thoughts.

Thomas was shaken from his thoughts as he passed an alleyway and heard– _something._ A low, quiet noise, but one that sounded oddly familiar. He glanced to his left down the alley and noticed the faint outline of a figure lying down and it took him only a few seconds to connect the dots– breathing. Labored, heavy breathing.

_Shit._ Was the person down there hurt? Or homeless? Or just passed out drunk in an alley? Thomas bit his lip, unsure as to whether he should help the person or just keep walking. Part of him screamed ‘ _just keep walking, you don’t know who that is. They could be dangerous.’_ But what if they needed help? He could at the very least run down and see if they needed anything. He could spare to give them some money, or even his scarf or something.

Thomas took a cautious step into the alley, and then another, and another. It was then that the light from the streetlamp hit the figure _just right_ and Thomas noticed the little pool of dark liquid near the person’s head. His heartbeat quickened and he broke out into a run, until finally skidding to a stop at the person’s side and taking in the sight below him.

At his feet was a frail-looking man, unconscious and shivering. His left arm was bent at an angle that made Thomas’ stomach churn, and even though dark hair covered most of his face, he could still see the blood oozing from some kind of head injury. All in all, he was in bad shape.

Thomas tried to calm himself and kneeled at the man’s side, gently shaking his shoulder in an attempt to wake him. The man stirred and let out a jagged groan, and with what looked like great difficulty, craned his neck up to look at Thomas.

Thomas bit down on his lip so hard to hold back a scream that he almost drew blood. 

_“Hamilton?”_ he breathed, surprised to find that his voice still worked. His ears were ringing, his head felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton, he had to be dreaming, this must be a _mistake–_

But it wasn’t. There was no denying it. This was Alexander _fucking_ Hamilton, but what made Thomas so shocked was how _unrecognizable_ he looked. If it wasn’t for the fact that Thomas saw Hamilton nearly every day, he wouldn’t have known it was him.

His right eye was blackened and swollen, his nose was badly broken and blood coated his lips and chin. Blood and scratches and dirt decorated his cheeks, and there was a ring of dark bruises circling his neck.

“J-Jefferson?” Hamilton croaked. His ragged breathing hitched and he coughed, spitting out blood and– oh god, was that a _tooth_ – onto the ground, effectively shaking Thomas out of his stupor.

“Holy _shit,_ Hamilton, what the hell happened to you?” Thomas asked, unable to keep the panic from his voice. What was he supposed to _do?_ His mind was racing, and he took a deep breath, trying and failing to calm himself down.

“M-mugged…” Hamilton slurred, his eyes fluttering shut again.

_“Shit…”_ Thomas whispered to himself. He whipped off his scarf and lifted Hamilton’s head as gingerly as possible, wrapping it twice and tying it as tightly as possible around the wound. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. It was then he noticed how _cold_ Hamilton was– did they steal his jacket, or was he just not wearing one?– and took off his own, moved to wrap it around Hamilton before realizing that he was still lying on the cold, dirty ground. Thomas grunted and sat down on the other side of Hamilton and pulled him into his lap, cringing when he heard a pitiful cry escape the other man’s lips.

“Sorry, sorry…” Thomas muttered. He was trying to be as gentle as possible but Hamilton was beaten up _bad._ He wrapped his jacket around Hamilton’s shivering frame and held him close with one arm, reached into his back pocket with the other and dialed ‘9-1-1’ with shaky fingers.

_“911, what’s your emergency?”_ Thomas cursed his phone for having such shitty speakers, he could barely hear the operator over the sound of roaring blood in his ears and the thunderous pounding in his chest–

“I- I need help, I found my–” Thomas paused, if only for a millisecond. Hamilton was his what? They weren’t strangers by any accounts, but they weren’t _friends,_ either– they were work rivals at best and bitter enemies at worst. But somehow telling the operator that he hated the man in his arms’ guts didn’t seem like the smartest course of action. “–friend in an alley, he was mugged and now he’s beaten up real bad and he needs help and I don’t know what to do and _fuck–_ ”

_“Is he conscious?”_ The dispatcher interrupted his rambling, brought him back down to Earth.

“Barely,” Thomas replied, and as if on cue, Hamilton shuddered, his eyes fluttered back open and he let out a whimper, low and quiet and pitiful.

_“Okay. I need you to stay calm and tell me where you are.”_

Stay calm? How the hell was he supposed to stay calm? Thomas shook his head at the absurdity of the command, but took a few deep breaths and relayed his location.

_“We’re sending help right away. Please stay with him until an ambulance comes. Don’t move from where you are right now.”_

“Thank you– _shit–_ please hurry, please please hurry…”

Thomas ended the call and turned his attention back to Hamilton. His eyes were half-closed and unfocused, and his body was a limp weight in Thomas’ arms. Blood was seeping through the scarf Thomas had wrapped around his head, and he couldn’t tell for sure in the darkness but Thomas was certain there was blood all over his shirt too at this point. He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“J-Jefferson… _Thomas…”_ Hamilton mumbled, drawing in a ragged breath and reaching up to put a hand on Thomas’ face. “If… if I don’t… Thomas you h-have to tell John– tell him I forgive him and Laf and it-it was my fault and–” Hamilton’s eyes were wide at this point, speaking faster and barely understandable. “A-and Eliza… Thomas you have to tell her I’m _sorry…_ _please Thomas you have to tell her–”_

Thomas’ eyes widened as he realized what Hamilton was implying. “No,” he whispered, “No, no, no, don’t you _dare_ talk like that, you are going to be okay, help is coming and everything’s gonna be okay and _don’t you fucking dare die on me, Alexander Hamilton–”_

Hamilton’s eyes were closed again, but Thomas could still feel the faint rise-and-fall of his chest as he took in one labored breath after another.

 

_He’s going to be fine. Help is coming._

 

_He’s losing so much blood._

 

_The ambulance should be here any second now. He’s going to be okay._

 

_He’s so cold. Freezing._

 

_Everything will be okay._

 

_Blood. So much blood._

 

_Help is coming._

 

_So cold._

 

_Help._

 

Thomas shut his eyes and tried to shut out all the thoughts raging in his head. He’s only been in this alley for five minutes, if that– and yet it felt like hours, days, years. His mind wandered back to the day before, where Hamilton had stormed into his office to yell at him about who knows what, and Thomas retaliated with some low-blow insult about his fashion, or his friends, or his _whatever._

It all seemed so insignificant now.

His eyes grew heavy. Hot tears threatened to fall, and for the first time in a long time, Thomas let them.

Alone in the darkness, Thomas wept.

–––

The next hour or so passed by in a blur. The ambulance came, some men took Hamilton and moved him onto a stretcher before loading him in the back of the ambulance. Thomas didn’t really remember getting in the ambulance with him but he remembered how _small_ Hamilton looked as he lay there, the bright lighting of the car illuminating every new bruise and cut he hadn’t noticed before. He didn’t remember arriving at the hospital, either, but he remembered so clearly how they practically had to _force_ Thomas into a waiting room because he wouldn’t let go of Hamilton, wouldn’t let them take him away–

And now Thomas found himself in a solemn waiting room, his only company a sleeping elderly man on the other side of the room. It didn’t seem real, none of this seemed real. How had he gone from indulging himself in a pity drink because it had been a rough week, to sitting in a waiting room, hoping against hope that his sworn enemy wasn’t _dead?_ Or paralyzed? Or brain-damaged?

Thomas leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. What a way to end the week. 

“Mr. Jefferson?” Thomas looked up to see a nurse standing at the doorway, clipboard in hand. He leapt up from his chair and practically ran across the room to her, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Is he okay? Is he awake? Can I see him? I–" 

“He’s stable,” the nurse said, and Thomas shut his mouth, swallowing his words. “We have him sedated right now, but he’s stable. He lost a lot of blood and sustained a concussion, however we don’t think it’ll cause any lasting brain damage.” 

Thomas let go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “How badly is he hurt? Other than that?”

The nurse glanced down at her chart. “He’s got quite a bit of bruising on his face and neck. His nose and left arm been broken as well.”

“Can I see him? Please?” Thomas pleaded.

She nodded. “You mustn’t disturb him, though. Follow me.”

Thomas nearly wept in relief. He needed to _see_ him, needed to make sure that he was _okay–_

“It’s very lucky you found him when you did, Mr. Jefferson,” the nurse said, “if he had been out there any longer…” She trailed off, unsure of how to continue.

“What? He would have what?” Thomas echoed, even though he knew the answer.

The nurse sighed. “Aside from the injuries, Mr. Hamilton didn’t appear to be in good health to begin with. Very underweight, very weak. I’m guessing he hasn’t been eating right. The point is, Mr. Jefferson, in the state he was in, if you hadn’t found him, if no one else had found him, I don’t think he would’ve made it to morning.”

Thomas was silent.

“You saved his life,” the nurse said quietly.

They stopped in front of a door and the nurse– Maria Lewis, as her nametag said– led him inside.

Hamilton was fast asleep on the hospital bed. His left arm was in a sling, and there was a white bandage wrapped around his head and an IV in his right forearm. He was hooked up to oxygen, Thomas noted numbly.

He was so _pale._  

“If you have contact with any of his friends or family, please tell them. I’m sure they would like to know about this,” the nurse said before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

_Shit._ Why hadn’t he thought to call anyone? Hamilton has friends who should be here right now, ready to comfort Hamilton when he wakes, and yet the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

He reached back into his pocket and searched for Lafayette’s contact– the only mutual friend between him and Hamilton. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and Thomas was just about to hang up in dismay before he heard a very tired Laf on the other end.

“Thomas?” Laf said groggily, “It’s 4:30, what are you doing up so early?”

“You need to come to the hospital.” His voice sounded raw, empty, as he spoke the words.

“What? Why? What happened?” Laf was more alert now, concern lacing his thick accent. 

“Hamilton. He got mugged. He’s in the hospital now. Tell his other friends to come. Or don’t. Just… come here.” 

Laf was silent for a moment.

“I’m coming.”

The line went dead.

–––

Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, the door flung open and five people came barging in.

“Alex!”

“Holy shit, is he okay?”

“Oh my _god,_ what– _Thomas_ , is that _blood on your shirt?”_  

Thomas glanced down at his shirt. He had completely forgotten about the bloodstains on his chest from when Hamilton had put his head. How the hell was he going to explain that?

“Never mind that, what happened to Alex?” A young woman– that must be Eliza– pushed past Laf and rushed to Hamilton’s side. 

“Did Laf not tell you?” Thomas deadpanned. He really didn't want to have to recount the night’s events over again. 

Unfortunately, Laf shook his head no. “You barely said anything on the phone, mon ami,” he explained, “I figured it was best to let you tell it.”

Thomas sighed. “I was walking home and I found him in an alley. Said he was mugged. I called 911 and I’ve been here ever since.”

“Oh my god, when did this happen?” Eliza spoke in a whisper, as if trying not to disturb the unconscious man resting beside her. 

“I found him around 3, I think,” Thomas replied. _Had it really only been two hours?_

Laurens scowled at that. “And we’re just hearing about this _now?”_

Thomas blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Two hours. It took you _two hours_ to think, ‘hey, maybe I should tell his _friends_ about this,’” Laurens spat, his eyes narrowing, “seeing as we actually _care_ about him. Unlike _you.”_  

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Thomas tried as best he could to keep the venom out of his voice. It didn’t work.

Laurens scoffed. “Oh please. He _hates_ you. And you’re a complete _asshole_ to him. Honestly Jefferson, why are you even here? You really think Alex is gonna want to see _your_ face when he wakes up?” 

_“I saved his life!”_

“Yes, and we thank you _very much,”_ Laurens drawled, “but if you could please leave now, that would be much appreciated.”

Thomas glared at Laurens, red seeping into his vision. How _dare_ he suggest that Thomas leave, after _everything that just happened–_  

“I’m not going anywhere,” Thomas spat, and with that he plopped himself back into the chair next to Hamilton’s bed.

Laurens huffed. “How are you even friends with him, Laf,”

“John, he saved Alexander’s _life,_ he is only concerned–” 

“Yes, well Alex is gonna be fine, the nurse said so herself, so what is he still doing here, hmm?”

Laf sighed, but said no more.

––– 

Thomas did go home, eventually. He spent the rest of the night and most of the morning in the hospital, ignoring the questioning glances from Hamilton’s friends, but when the clock hit 11 he remembered that he hadn’t eaten, there was still blood on his shirt, and he probably smelled like a walking corpse. He took a cab home and showered, then called James and spent a full hour recounting the previous night and hoping against hope that his voice didn’t reveal the silent tears rolling down his cheeks as he remembered how _pale_ Hamilton looked in the back of the ambulance–

He got the text from Laf at 1:29, as he was pacing his living room wondering whether it was appropriate to go back and visit Hamilton again, or if Lauren's would just yell at him again.

 

_come to the hospital now. alex is awake_

 

Thomas nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to grab his jacket, shoes, and race out the door. He had the sense to take his car this time, and sped to the hospital as fast as he could. (Legally, that is).

Six pairs of eyes greeted him when he opened the door to Hamilton’s room, ranging from Lauren’s narrowed ones, to Lafayette’s concerned ones, to Hamilton’s carefully blank ones. He stepped inside somewhat awkwardly, unsure of what to do, if he should say anything. After all, he wasn’t friends with any of these people, with the exception of Laf, and as Laurens so eloquently explained, he and Hamilton weren’t exactly on the best of terms.

“Uhm… hey,” Thomas said lamely.

“Hello Thomas,” Angelica tried in vain to lighten the mood, but did nothing to solve the tension that hung over the room like a dark cloud.

“I’m– I’m glad you’re awake,” Thomas said, this time looking directly at Hamilton, “I can, like, go if you want–”

“Stay.” Hamilton’s voice was weak and hoarse, and Thomas’ eyes wandered to the bruises circling his neck. “In fact, can you guys leave for a little bit? I kind of… want to talk to Thomas alone.”

Thomas was sure he misheard, but sure enough, the other five people silently nodded and shuffled out, and Thomas very carefully did not notice the spitting glare Laurens was giving him on the way out.

The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that, they were alone.

The room seemed so much bigger now, having gone from seven inhabitants to two. Thomas thought back to when he first saw Hamilton here, when he was sedated and it really _was_ just the two of them. Fuck, that seemed like an eternity ago.  

“Hey,” Hamilton breathed.

“Hey,” Thomas echoed. He glided to the chair beside the bed and dropped into it, suddenly exhausted.

They were quiet for a moment.

“You saved me,” Hamilton said suddenly, lacking emotion. 

“I did.” 

“I would be dead if it wasn’t for you.” The words hung heavy between them.

Thomas blinked, not meeting Hamilton’s eye. “You don’t know that. Someone else could’ve helped you.”

Hamilton laughed, short and dry and devoid of humor. “We both know that’s not true.”

Thomas was quiet.

It was a full minute before Hamilton spoke again. 

“Lafayette said you stayed.”

“Pardon?"

“You stayed. The night. With me.”

Oh. Right. “Yeah,” Thomas nodded and looked at his hands. 

“Why?” Hamilton’s voice was sharp, even in its raspy state.

Thomas looked up at this, meeting Hamilton’s gaze.

“Why wouldn’t I have stayed?”

Hamilton shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe because you, and I quote, ‘can’t stand to be in the same room with me for more than five seconds without wanting to rip my tiny little head off.’ Very eloquent insult, I must say.”

The snide remark was classic Hamilton, but it lacked the usual bite. In fact, Thomas was almost _glad_ to hear it. It made everything seem a little closer to normal.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess. Why do you care so much? Would you rather I had left?” The words sounded oddly hollow as they left Thomas’ mouth.

It was Hamilton’s turn to go silent.

The tension was heavy, almost suffocating. Neither knew what to say, how to continue the talk.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Hamilton said, after what felt like eons. “No one else did.”

“I know. I was there.”

Hamilton let out a little laugh, a real one this time. “Yeah, I suppose you were.”

Thomas gave a little ‘hmm’ of agreement and studied Hamilton’s face. He was still pale, but not like the night before. The bruises and cuts hadn’t magically disappeared overnight, but they were cleaned and bandaged and didn’t look so terrible. He was healing. He was going to be okay.

“When do you think they’ll release me?” Hamilton mused. Thomas shrugged. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, honestly.

“I dunno. Probably a few days.”

“Fuck that. I have work.”

“Hamilton, you can’t possibly be thinking about work. You just got _mugged._ ”

“Did they steal my laptop? No. If I can talk, I can write.”

“You’re insane.”

“You mispronounced ‘genius.’”

They stayed like that for a while, just talking. Conversation flowed easily and it was nice to pretend, for even just a little bit, that they weren’t enemies, or rivals, or whatever. Hamilton was actually quite pleasant when he wasn’t screaming his head off, Thomas decided. Even in his fragile state, the man could _talk._ But it wasn’t about how much he hated Thomas’ latest bill proposal, or his political ideology, or his _wardrobe_ for god’s sake. It was just _talk_ , civil conversation between two people who, in that moment, were enjoying each other’s company.

Thomas found himself forlorn when night fell and he had to go home.

 –––

Hamilton was released from the hospital three days later and, much to his dismay and objection, forced by Washington to take a mandatory two week break (“ _three_ if you keep complaining about it.”) 

He left the office in a fit of rage, so Thomas thought it best not to say anything to him.

Much to his surprise, he received a call from none other than Hamilton himself at 11:32 that night. 

“Hamilton? What is it?” This was odd, to say the least. Hamilton never called him. Thomas wasn’t even sure how he got his number. 

“Hey. Thomas.” Hamilton sounded uncomfortable on the other line, like he was unsure as to why he called, or he didn’t know what to say. Thomas suspected both.

“Any particular reason you’re calling me?”

“Yeah. Listen. I know this might sound like, really weird,” Hamilton paused, and Thomas could hear him sigh on the other end. “Can you, like, come over? Now?”

Thomas blinked. _Come over?_

“Uhm…” he droned, mentally slapping himself for sounding so moronic.

“I know, I know it’s weird. We hate each other and all that. But if I ask Laf or John or someone they would just like, _coddle me,_ you know? Ever since the _thing_ happened, I swear they’ve been walking on eggshells around me. And, uh, I know you aren’t like that. And I don’t really wanna be by myself right now. So uh. Yeah." 

Hamilton ended his rambling and Thomas was quiet, still processing what Hamilton was asking him to do. He wanted _Thomas?_ Out of all his friends, he could’ve called anyone but he _didn’t_ and he called _Thomas._

It seemed Thomas was quiet for a second too long.

“Fuck, sorry. This was a stupid idea. Sorry for bothering you, I’ll get John to–”

“Wait! Hamilton. Sorry, I kind of blanked there for a second. But I can come, yeah. No problem.”

“No, it’s fine, I don’t want to bother you–” 

“It’s okay, Hamilton. Give me your address. I’ll be there soon.”

Thomas heard a faint sigh of relief from the other line and bit back a grin.

 –––

_Fuck_ stairs, _fuck_ the elevator for being broken, and _fuck_ Hamilton for living on the tenth goddamn story.

Thomas’ frustration must’ve shown on his face, because the first thing Hamilton said when he opened the door was “sorry about the elevator,” complete with a sheepish little grin and everything.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Thomas muttered, carefully stepping into Hamilton’s apartment and looking around. His apartment wasn’t a lot, but it was nice. There were papers _everywhere,_ but Thomas had expected as much. If anything, it was cleaner than he had expected. There were at least ten empty mugs scattered around the place, and a bottle of wine sat open on the coffee table.

“Thanks for coming,” Hamilton mumbled and dropped himself onto the couch. Thomas took note of his appearance: sweatpants and a loose green t-shirt, hair pulled back in a sloppy bun. The medical bandage around his head was gone, but the cast on his nose remained, and his arm was in a sling. His bruises were mostly gone, except for his eye, which was still blooming purple and yellow, but even that had faded. More color had returned to his face, despite the fact that he looked utterly exhausted. But overall, he was looking better. A lot better. 

“No problem,” Thomas said, and plopped himself on the couch next to Hamilton. It was really more of a loveseat so there wasn’t much space, but that didn’t seem to bother Hamilton.

Hamilton reached over and grabbed the wine bottle, took a swig, and offered it to Thomas.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “No glasses?”

Hamilton merely shrugged. “Glasses are for losers.”

Thomas scoffed, but took the bottle all the same. “So why’d you want me to come over?” 

Hamilton pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. “I told you on the phone.” He didn’t meet Thomas’ gaze. 

“You know what I mean.”

Hamilton sighed and gestured for the wine again. “I keep thinking about it,” he muttered softly, “I keep thinking about it and I told John and Eliza and all of them I was fine and they didn’t need to worry and shit, but I can’t stop thinking about it and I just… needed some company.”

Thomas nodded. That was understandable. “You did get mugged, you know. And almost died.” 

He was met with a questioning glance. “Oh, really. I didn’t know.”

“ _So,_ you’re allowed to be upset over it. And you don’t have to lie to your friends, either.” 

Hamilton rolled his eyes. “If I _tell_ them, they’re just going to run over here and be like, ‘oh, Alex, can we get you anything? Take it easy, Alex, you have a concussion, don’t want to stress yourself, yada yada yada.’ Blegh.” 

“They’re kind of right. And they wouldn’t do that if you were a functioning adult who knew how to take care of himself.”

“ _Excuse me,_ I am a _completely_ functioning adult–”

“Sure. And I’m the King of England,” Thomas rolled his eyes, and was rewarded with a pillow being thrown at him. “That reminds me.” He got up off the couch and went to Hamilton’s fridge, where he was greeted with a depressingly small array of food. Its only contents were two bottles of seltzer, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, a slice of pizza on a plate covered with plastic wrap, and a bag of apples. 

“Who the fuck keeps apples in the fridge?” Thomas remarked. He took the pizza out, shed it of the plastic wrap, and set the plate in the microwave before turning back to Hamilton.

“I do, thank you very much,” Hamilton grumbled, sounding somewhat offended. “And what are you doing in my kitchen? Microwaving my food?”

“I’m making you eat, because clearly your ass can’t take care of itself.” The microwave beeped behind him. Thomas grabbed the plate and made his way back into the living room.

“Eat,” he said, holding the plate out to Hamilton. He took it hesitantly, eyeing Thomas with a suspicious gaze.

“I regret inviting you. You’re worse than Laf.”

Thomas just shrugged. “Hate me all you want. I don’t care.” He sat back down on the couch and took another sip from the bottle.

He glanced at Hamilton for a reply, but the smaller man was busy stuffing his face with pizza. For a while the room was filled with nothing but chewing sounds, before Hamilton eventually swallowed and spoke up. 

“I don't hate you.”

That caught Thomas by surprise. “What?”

“I don't hate you. Never did, not really.” Hamilton paused. “Okay, maybe a little. At the beginning. But not now.”

Thomas wasn't sure how to respond to that. Luckily for him, he didn't have to, because Hamilton went right on talking.

“I mean, I never _liked_ you. But I don't think I ever _hated_ you. There's a difference. I think if I _hated_ you, I wouldn't try to fight with you so much. You know? Because if I hated you, I wouldn't want to be in the same room with your arrogant ass for more than two seconds, much less argue with you every damn day. I mean, I think your ideas are stupid and you dress like a pretentious asshole, but that doesn't mean I _hate_ you.” Hamilton ended his rather odd monologue with a particularly large swig from the nearly-emptied bottle.

Thomas blinked, bewildered. What exactly was the point of all that? He opened his mouth to inquire, but was cut short when Hamilton launched into yet another tirade.

“But now, it’s different. Even more different. Because now I don't even not like you. And yeah, yeah, that's a double negative. I'm tired. You know what I mean.” Hamilton rubbed his face with his good hand, and Thomas wondered whether Hamilton himself knew what he was talking about.

“Like, I invited you to my house. At _night_ . Because I was alone. And I couldn't get my mind off of this goddamn mugging. But why did I want _you_ of all people? You don't even _like_ me. But maybe you do. You saved my life and then you stayed with me in the hospital and now you're here and it doesn't make _sense_. None of this makes sense. Everything's different now and I don't know what to do.”

Hamilton heaved a sigh and sank into the couch. He stuffed the last of his pizza crust in his mouth and looked up at Thomas pitifully.

“Getting beat up in an alley really fucked you up,” Thomas remarked.

Hamilton shrugged. “I did almost _die._ It changes a man." 

“Haven't you already almost died like, twice?” 

“Three times. I swallowed drain cleaner in college once. They had to pump my stomach.”

Thomas just stared at him. “How are you not dead, Alexander Hamilton.”

Hamilton grinned. “Sheer stubbornness and an iron will.” 

They fell into a comfortable silence, and Thomas took the time to reflect on his life and how _weird_ it had gotten in the past few days. Here he was, in _Hamilton’s_ home, talking and drinking wine on _Hamilton’s_ couch, after saving _Hamilton’s_ life, and lately everything has just been _Hamilton, Hamilton, Hamilton_ and he found himself not hating it as much as he would have thought. It was… surreal, almost. Of all the people in all of New York, he had to find _Alexander Hamilton_ in that goddamn alley and now his life was very quickly turning upside down.

“Thanks for coming, Thomas,” Hamilton murmured, and it may have been Thomas’ imagination, but he could’ve sworn Hamilton shifted ever so slightly closer.

“‘Thomas,’” Thomas echoed. “You don’t say ‘Jefferson’ anymore. I’ve noticed that. You call me ‘Thomas.’” 

“You saved my life,” Hamilton said, “I think we’re on first-name basis by now.”

Thomas chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.” 

The next three things happened very fast. Alexander’s eyes darted to Thomas’ lips and then back up to meet Thomas’ own. He leaned in ever so slightly and Thomas hadn’t fully processed what was going on until Alex’s hand was cupping his cheek and his lips were on his own. Thomas froze for a millisecond before relaxing into the kiss, scooting closer and lifting his hand to rest on Alexander’s chest. The kiss was sweet, blissful, it felt so _right–_

Then, as soon as it began, Thomas pulled away abruptly when his brain started working again and it registered that he was _kissing Alexander Hamilton._ He stared, slack-jawed, as the other man opened his eyes and took in Thomas’ expression. 

Alex went wide eyed. A hand flew to his mouth and his cheeks flushed deep red in embarrassment.

“Oh, shit– are you not– do you not like–” he stuttered, “– _fuck_ , sorry, I completely thought you were–”

“Alex!” Thomas said loudly, and Alexander quieted. “No, no, it’s not _that–_ I mean, I am– I do like boys, if that’s what you mean–” 

“So you don’t like me,” Alex said glumly, looking away.

“No, that’s not it either, I _do_ like you. I was just… caught off-guard, that’s all. Us being ‘mortal enemies’ and all.” Thomas was red-faced too at this point, he was sure of it. He could practically feel the warmth bubbling up in his cheeks.

“Aww, how cute, you’re getting flustered!” Alex confirmed his suspicion with an obnoxious poke to the cheek.

“You’re one to talk, asshole,” Thomas muttered, which only earned him a shit-eating grin. What a dumbass.

“Seriously, though…” Alex started, his grin fading. He gulped and glanced at glanced at the clock. “It’s getting late.”

It wasn’t phrased as a simple observation, more of a… question. An _offer,_ even. Alex was testing the waters. Thomas understood.

“It is,” he agreed. “We should go to bed.” He took extra care to emphasize the _we_.

The meaning was not lost to Alexander. He smiled wryly and stood up, offering his good hand to Thomas. He didn’t let go, either, not until they were standing in Alex’s bedroom and Thomas was stripping his jeans off.

“I don’t have any sweats that would fit you, sorry,” Alex said. 

Thomas shrugged. “That’s fine. I usually sleep in boxers.”

Alex nodded and sat down on the bed. Thomas followed, but before he could get in Alex had his hand twisted in Thomas’ shirt and pulled him down.

They kissed again, and this time Thomas was ready for it. He pushed Alex back on the bed until he was leaning against the headboard and sat on Alex’s thighs, straddling him. One hand moved to cup the side of Alex’s face and the other threaded its fingers in Alex’s hair. Alex’s arm settled on the small of Thomas’ back, which sent shivers down his spine and he parted his lips to let out a small moan.

They stayed like that for a while, just kissing, and when Thomas pulled away this time it was gentle and made Alexander only smile.

“You’re beautiful,” Thomas whispered.

Alex rolled his eyes. “I have a black eye and my nose is in a cast. You have low standards.”

“Incredibly low. Why else would I be kissing you?”

Thomas was rewarded with a not-so-light jab to the ribcage. 

“You know, we could always…” Alex trailed off, but his suggestive tone and the way his hips bucked up ever so slightly finished the sentence for him. 

Thomas shook his head and rolled off of Alex. “Not tonight. I have work tomorrow. And you have a broken arm. And a concussion, for that matter. I can’t imagine it would be any fun for you.”

Alex huffed and rolled onto his side, and Thomas heard him mutter “you’re no fun,” to which Thomas just smirked and pulled the covers up over the two of them. He wrapped an arm around Alexander, minding his injured arm, and buried his face in the back of his neck.

Alexander was either a fast sleeper or hadn’t had a proper sleep in a long time, because he was out like a light in a matter of minutes. It took Thomas longer to fall asleep, it always did, but with another body pressed against him, the peaceful rise-and-fall of his chest as Alex drew in one long breath after another calmed him immensely, and he was drifting off before he knew it.

Thomas didn’t know if this was the last night he’d spend in Alex’s apartment, or the first of many. He didn’t know if they would get along at work now, or if they’d be at each other’s throats at every turn, just like before. He didn’t know _what_ the future had in store, but it didn’t matter because right now he was in Alexander’s apartment, falling asleep with Alex in his arms.

Things were alright.

**Author's Note:**

> first hamilton fic posted here, many more to come !! (just you wait...)
> 
> comments and kudos are much appreciated. 
> 
> also, i made a shiny new [tumblr](http://www.roseclipping.tumblr.com) for this account, so go check me out over there if you like. im open to art/fic request if you fancy them ~


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